Owls and Ethics: Chasing the Holmes Owl

A white silhouette lifts into the air on broad, white wings.  White feet plunge into white snow; black, recurved talons quickly sever the vertebrae of an unsuspecting vole.  A satellite dish head bends down to grasp its prize with an equally sharp, black bill.  Vole dangling limply, the great bird lifts into the air again, flying a short distance to perch on a nearby fence post.  Upon landing, she returns the prey to her feet and surveys her surroundings, golden eyes blazing in the early morning light.  Finding no adversary on the open landscape, the owl settles into her meal.  A few upward thrusts of the neck, and the vole disappears down her gullet, leaving a scarlet smear across her white whiskers.  Crop full, she ruffles her feathers, appearing for a moment twice as large as she truly is.  Her eyelids begin to droop—falling from the top down, she looks eerily human.  Not a hundred yards away, a group of photographers and birders stand witness to this rarely seen northern spectacle.  

Snowy owls (Bubo scandiacus) exhibit irruptive migration patterns as young birds travel from the arctic breeding grounds to winter in northern states.  Some years, there can be as few as two owl sightings along the entire Lake Erie shoreline.  In others, snowies can irrupt across the northeast in the hundreds.  During the winter of 2013-14, snowies broke a century record, reaching as far south as Florida and the Bahamas.  

So what causes this erratic descent upon the lower forty-eight?  The short answer: lemmings.  Brown lemmings are a keystone species in the arctic, providing food for countless predators.  Lemmings exhibit a cyclic population, rising and falling in numbers every 3-4 years.  Rapid reproduction means three lemming generations can be born in a single summer.  With this influx of hungry mouths, lemmings eat themselves out of house and home.  Coupled with an increase in their predators (such as owls), lemming populations eventually crash.  This dance between scarcity and abundance of both prey and predator has driven arctic evolution for millions of years.  

A screenshot of the eBird map for snowy owls in late 2017.

In boom years, snowy owls can fledge as many as ten chicks.  Come winter, young owls get kicked out of their parent’s breeding territories.  They fly south to greener, milder pastures where they turn up in areas that resemble the arctic tundra (eg. airports and farms).  Owls that find good hunting grounds can stick around for months, often until March or April.  With so many young and inexperienced birds, irruption years can mean utter chaos.  

One thing is always certain, however: when snowies irrupt, so do birders.  These owls draw bird-lovers like bees to honey.  If a snowy shows up near you, you can bet that a gaggle of camera toting, binocular clad enthusiasts won't be far behind.  This winter, 2017-18, is looking like another irruption year for the arctic birds.  Some 50 individuals are thought to have already made their way across Lake Erie and into Ohio.

A closer look at Ohio.

For years, I have chased snowy owls without success.  I always seemed to be one step behind.  This past November, I decided to try my luck at the Lorain Impoundment in northeastern Ohio—a spot where snowies are known to frequent.  A bird had been reported regularly for the last week, flooding the internet with images and stories.  Arriving early on Thanksgiving morning, I was encouraged to see the impoundment already crawling with birders.  Dozens of huge, tripod-mounted lenses were slung over shoulders or pointing out towards the embankment.  I did the rounds, asking others what they had seen.  Long story short, duck hunters had scared the bird away.  

That same Thanksgiving day, another snowy owl would show up on a farm nearly 100 miles away in Holmes County.  The bird in question (soon to become famously known as the Holmes owl) would remain on the farm for weeks, giving hundreds of birders excellent views of one of Ohio’s most beautiful winter residents.  The farm’s owner, Orris Wengerd, graciously allowed owl-seekers from all parts of the state (and beyond) to visit his farm for hours on end. 

Having struck out with snowies so many times, I was tentative about planning a drive to Holmes County.  Back at Ohio University, I recruited my close friend and fellow wildlife student, Amanda Szinte, to come along on a last minute owling trip.  We left for Amish country while it was still dark, driving two and a half hours in search of my ghost bird.

As we pulled into the farm's driveway, I could see a white, huddled figure perched like a weathervane near the edge of the barn roof.  For a moment, it didn't look real.  It could have been a plush toy, stuck up there to fool us.  But then the bird moved, rotating its feathered dome in that way only owls can.  My heart began to race; there it was, the bird we had journeyed so far to see!  I set up my tripod, one of over a dozen already there, and began taking shot after shot.

We stood behind a wooden fence in a designated viewing area, giving the bird plenty of space.  The huge, white raptor was indifferent to our presence.  Having quickly grown accustomed to us flightless humans, she snoozed the morning away.  We hung on its every move, cameras and binoculars at the ready.  I could hardly believe how close we were to this wild inhabitant of the arctic tundra.  Trying not to draw too much attention to ourselves, Amanda and I did a subdued version of our happy dance. 

The lighting came and went, as did other birders and photographers.  There were at least twenty or so observers at any given time while I was there.  For the next several hours, we stood shivering, watching the bird sleep.  In this time, the owl moved little, save for its swiveling head.  Most would find the monotony taxing, but not me; the excitement of seeing a snowy in the flesh made the time fly (no pun intended).

Unlike most owls, snowies aren't completely nocturnal.  They are perfectly capable of hunting during daylight hours should the opportunity present itself.  In their arctic home, the summer sun doesn't set for months on end.  We saw several meadow voles that would have made an easy target for the powerful bird.  Indifferent even to prey, she relaxed in the morning sun.

Suddenly, another, smaller raptor burst out from behind the owl.  Everyone gasped as the Cooper’s hawk swooped low over us and landed in a nearby tree.  The woman next to me nearly fell out  of her chair.  In our surprise, not a single shutter had fired.  The owl, on the other hand, didn't even flinch.  It had heard the comparatively noisy flight of the accipiter a long way off.  The little Cooper’s posed no threat, and so, like us, was ignored.

Someone redirected my attention back to the bird on the roof.  Looking up, I gasped; the owl was stretching her wings.  I poised my finger over my camera’s shutter should the owl suddenly take flight.  The bird leaned forward, extending her neck, eyes fixed on something we could not see.  The group held a collective breath.  You could have heard a pin drop, or a mouse squeak.  Evidently, the owl heard neither.  After several minutes of intense scanning, she settled back into her perch rather anticlimactically.  I lowered my arms, stiff from the cold.  I was actually relieved the bird hadn't flown. With my clunky tripod rig, there was a good chance I would miss the flight shot if I wasn't fully prepared.  

Forty five minutes later, the owl took flight.  Shutters fired like machine guns from every direction.  The owl soared silently over the tall grass and landed on the ground at the far end of the fence.  Having missed its meadow vole prey, the owl lifted into the air again and flew behind the barn and out of site.  Assuming that was it for photographs, we all chuckled at how quickly the owl had alluded us.  But then, just as the Cooper’s hawk had done, the great owl burst from behind the barn and flew directly at us.  It was too fast for me to photograph; all I could do was gaze at its white underbelly and huge wings and talons as it soared over my head.

The owl touched down in a nearby field on top of what we hoped was a meal.  I clambered my way through the surge of photographers to see what the bird was doing.  The owl sat motionless, staring at its feet.  It began walking in clumsy circles, evidently perplexed that it hadn't caught anything.  It kept examining the same patch of earth, plodding gently with its huge, snowshoe feet.  

After spending nearly 5 hours with the snowy, it was time for us to leave.  We grabbed a quick lunch, and made one final pass by the farm.  I smiled to see the owl perched back up on the roof as if she had never moved.  We birders are indebted to people like the Wengerds for being so accommodating and welcoming.  Their hospitality has allowed for nearly a thousand people to date to visit this great northern bird.  

It is a sad fact that many of these first year owls will not return to the arctic in spring.  Many perils await them among human habitation.  When discussing the issue of ethics, snowy owls are the perfect storm.  For starters, most of the owls migrating south are young, inexperienced birds.  They have never encountered birders or photographers, let alone buildings, highways, and airplanes.  Their home, the arctic tundra, is one big gray-scape.  Devoid of trees, low grassy mounds serve as the highest perches.  This explains the snowy’s tendency to “hide in plain sight.”

Sitting out in the open makes them an easy target for a whole assortment of trouble. One of the largest controversies surrounding these owls is “how close can you get?”  The real question people should be asking is “how close should you get?”  Owls tolerate a lot.  They are quick to learn that a distant human is not threat, nor food.  But approach too closely and the owl will start to get antsy.  An owl’s personal bubble is much larger than yours or mine.  Getting within a few meters just isn't acceptable.  These owls have binocular vision, useful for spotting prey at a distance.  The down side to this adaptation is their inability to focus on nearby objects.  The closer you get, the harder it is for the bird to keep an eye on you.  

Days after my visit to the Holmes owl, I learned some disturbing news.  Several credible sources reported that the Wengereds were in fact feeding the owl.  “Baiting” birds of prey is heavily frowned upon in the birding and scientific communities.  The trouble with baiting owls is that it habituates them to humans.  The birds become dependent on hand outs and lose their natural hunting instincts.  Short term, it is easier to accept a free meal than to expend the energy it takes to hunt. When it comes time to return to the tundra, however, the owls lack the skills needed to survive in an unforgiving natural landscape. 

I don't know why the Wengerds chose to feed the owl, but I have to believe they felt no ill will towards their arctic visitor.  They were simply being hospitable to any man or beast that happened to show up on their doorstep. Who wouldn't want to help such a beautiful creature that chose to roost under your watch.

The misconception that migrating snowies are starving, however, has been thoroughly debunked. Starvation accounts for relatively few owl deaths each year.  Irruption year birds actually tend to be fatter and heavier than years when lemmings are less plentiful.  Birds that stick around humans for food are much more likely to be injured or killed.  Collisions with vehicles, power lines, buildings, and air planes account for most deaths each year.  Rat poison and electrocution are also major perils.  Although it is illegal to shoot birds of prey, the occasional bullet has revealed the cause of death in more than one owl autopsy.

If direct impacts from humans isn't enough, climate change is poised to deliver the fatal blow.  With less and less snow cover in the arctic each year, lemmings will be more exposed to predators.  Without the privacy of their snow burrows, they will not be able to proliferate to owl supporting numbers.  A future crash in the rodent population could set snowy owls on the path to extinction.  Visit Project SNOWstorm for more about owl ethics.

So what's the take away?  Don't get too close.  Don't give them food.  Appreciate them for their presence, not the photograph or the challenge.  A little respect and knowledge can go a long way to protecting our northerly neighbors.

Thanks for reading.

Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp 2018

I am pleased to announce that my photograph of an eastern garter snake was chosen to be the Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp for 2018.  It will be featured on the ODNR website.  Sales for the stamp begin March 1, 2018.  

I never in my wildest dreams expected to write this post.  It all started one afternoon in late August 2017. I happened to be checking my Facebook feed (I know, I know); social media is often cast in a negative light, but for a wildlife enthusiasts like myself, it can be a god-send.  The group Herping Ohio has been one of my favorites for a while.  This Facebook group is an amazing collection of nearly 1,000 members interested in Ohio’s native reptiles and amphibians.  It unites both newcomers to the world of herps as well as seasoned veterans.  I have had the good fortune of interacting with many of its members both online and in person.  Scrolling through the group’s feed is a great way learn what others have seen around the state. It provides a necessary tool for building connections with other like-minded and passionate herpetologists.

I often start my mornings checking what ‘the gang’ has posted.  Everything from hog-nosed snakes to spadefoot toads to timber rattlesnakes have appeared in the lineup at one time or another.  It is a delight to share in the experience of discovery—if only through a screen.  Seeing other herpers spending their weekends out in the sweltering heat and pelting rain motivates me to get off the computer and get outside.  There are creatures to be found and photos to share.  Images span from slightly out-of-focus iPhone shots to professional grade photography.  In the end, it isn't the quality of the photo that matters, it’s the photo’s subject.  I often scroll through at high speed, reassuring myself that I can identify Ohio’s different herps at a glance.  

One Herping Ohio member shared a link that happened to catch my attention.  Without a photo of some interesting animal, I normally would have scrolled right past; but something about the post gave me pause. The link redirected to the Ohio Division of Natural Resources website with a short description above.

The original shot.

The caption read, “The subject of the 2017 Photo Contest is a native Ohio Snake!  The winning photo will be featured on the 2018 Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp.”  Had the contest subject been any other group of vertebrates I would have kept scrolling.  I would stand no chance in a bird photography competition.  It’s not that I don't like to photograph birds (in fact, I spend a ridiculous amount of my free time trying to chase down unusual bird species), it’s that everyone likes to photograph birds.  Thousands of Ohio birders (with much fancier cameras than my own) would quickly outcompete my best shots.

A snake contest, however, now that was interesting.  There are far less people who spend their time trying to photograph reptiles and amphibians compared to their avian counterparts.  For reasons I have never fully understood, herps do not hold the same appeal as twittering songbirds in the glaring eyes of the public.  I have spent much of my life trying to destigmatize the reputations of reptiles and amphibians.  In this case, however, Ophidiophobia would work in my favor.  

Another angle of the garter.

If initial fear isn't enough to scare off would-be photographers, getting down and dirty with a snake will often do the trick.  Snakes squirm, musk, and bite, often making for an unnatural shot and an unpleasant experience.  Some snakes can grow quite large and are difficult to corral into a suitable pose.  Others, like the pit vipers, can be downright dangerous.  Snakes are cryptic and flighty creatures, difficult to spot among the leaf litter and quick to disappear at the first sign of inquire.  They are a photographer’s worst nightmare in many aspects.

Luck would have it that at the time of this contest I would be in a unique position to photograph the diversity of Ohio snakes.  Working as a field tech on a box turtle study, most of my waking hours were spent in the woods.  My camera was perpetually slung around my neck—easy access in case a speedy racer (or my mythical ratsnake) appeared.  After photographing dozens of snakes that summer, I hoped one of my shots would be suitable.  I sorted through copperheads, foxsnakes, earthsnakes, and ring-neckeds.  The image I finally settled on was of an eastern gartersnake (Thamnophis sirtalis sirtalis).

Screenshot courtesy of ODNR.

I stumbled upon the snake in question one summer evening while out turtle tracking.  Stretched out like a branch on the forest floor, another field tech had stepped right over the frozen serpent without even realizing it.  Garters are a common species, and are infamously nippy and smelly when caught.  I am usually satisfied admiring them from a distance.  On a whim, I decided to catch the little guy and take a few photographs.

The garter was a healthy sized adult with a stunning yellow face and flanks.  Its dorsal stripes were broken up into black and blue checkerboard striations.  As I picked the snake up, it whipped around to glare defiantly at me.  I placed the little garter among the leaf litter where it coiled and tongue flicked.  I had just a few moments for photos before I had to return to work.  I never imagined how nicely the shots would turn out.  

Screenshot courtesy of ODNR.

Editing that night, I loved the way the snake’s colors popped on screen.  A yellow and blue body contrasted nicely with the snake’s sharp, blood-red tongue tinged with black.  Its eyes held an intense gaze fixed on my hand (out of frame) in front of it.  As the field season progressed, this image became buried beneath hundreds of others.  It only resurfaced when I began looking for the perfect shot to enter in the stamp contest.  

The Ohio Wildlife Legacy Stamp contest is an annual event featuring a different native Ohio creature each year (next year 2019 the subject will be Ohio owls).  These commemorative stamps are $15 with $14 out of every purchase going directly to conservation efforts (none of this money goes to me).  The proceeds support habitat restoration, keeping common species common, endangered and threatened native species, as well as education and research projects.  You can see and purchase the stamps HERE.  

As the contest rules instructed, I needed to print and mount my photo.  Being a college student with few art supplies and less loose cash, I recruited my mother and aunt to help me with the project.  Those two never shied away from a creative challenge.  When I was a kid, the three of us would spend days working on the various art projects I would dream up.  No endeavor was too mighty; my mom once spent over half a year constructing life-size paper mache coral reefs for my senior after-prom.  As kids, my aunt would design intricate halloween costumes for me and my brothers.

The three of us got straight to work, printing photos, buying supplies, measuring frames, and filling out application sheets.  We had a blast.  I never would have stood a chance without their help.  After submitting the photo, the wait began.  I didn't want to to get my hopes up, so I got on with class work (the homework of a biology student never seems to end).  

A few months into the semester, I received a call from Tim Daniel, a professional wildlife photographer for the ODNR.  It took me a moment to realize what he was calling about.  I was flabbergasted to here that my little eastern garter snake had won!  “It was a gorgeous photo and will make a beautiful stamp,” Tim told me.  It made my day.  I immediately called home to tell everyone the good news.  

I am incredibly honored that my photo was chosen for the stamp.  Knowing that my little garter will help fund conservation efforts is extremely gratifying.  My endless thanks go to my friends and family who have put up with my reptilian obsession over the years.  I couldn't have done this without your help.

My advisor Dr. Viorel Popescu was nice enough to write a short article about my stamp for Ohio University.  Check it out HERE!